Page 50 of Hostile Bond
“Thanks for traveling with Souza Airlines.” He yawns and clamps a hand over his mouth.
I think about correcting him and rebranding it as Sapori Airlines, but I can’t bring myself to shun my marital name. Regardless of what happens next, I’m still André’s wife, which has more meaning than Frankie being my so-called father.
Once the door is open, an unforgiving wintry, rain-drenched breeze stings my cheeks, the temperature so much colder than I remember. Already, I miss the soul warming sunshine back on our beautiful island, the tropical climate that had made the days fulfilling. Everything had appeared brighter, happier––energetic––but that wasn’t solely due to solar power. It was the dangerous man who’d walked beside me.
My thoughts leave the sanctuary of our home and drift to this miserable nightmare. I have no idea where I would really belong after this.
I’d be a fugitive in Ireland. An uncrowned Sapori queen in Sicily and the enemy of a crime syndicate that stretches from Colombia to Miami––and beyond.
I don’t have far to go until I’m out of the rain, rushing over white stripe markings on the tarmac set out for pedestrians. They guide me to a white box of a building, small in comparison to most city airport terminals.
I pinch the peak of my cap to keep it from blowing off and hurry inside to arrivals, jogging to the UK Border Agency Officer where I present my passport. The guy in uniform stares at me for longer than necessary and repeats my marital surname in a mutter before he hands it back. No further questions.
It doesn't take long to bribe the young guy in the car rental kiosk by waving a wad of hundred-dollar bills in his face. I’m learning fast how money brings power and influence. He’s quick to realize the sum I’m offering him, when converted to Euros, would be ten times the rental fee for the most expensive car in stock.
I nod in thanks when he hands the key fob over and directs me out of the main building through sliding doors to the waiting sleek-silvered Aston Martin Volante in the parking lot. I’d asked for the fastest car on site and this is what they had available.
A pang of nerves knots my stomach and apprehension slithers down my spine like toxic mucus. I’d much rather be next to André in our king-size bed than drive through these dark streets alone. I groan at myself for becoming so weak-minded and swat away the nausea threatening to make me vomit.
I unlock the car and toss my backpack in first, then sink into the leather sports seat. Taking a few minutes to sort out the GPS, I suck in a deep breath to calm my nerves.
Heavy raindrops batter the roof of the vehicle as the engine roars to life. Even the heavens are weeping for my loss.
My soul is adrift under the Irish moon—disorientated and detached. Since standing next to my husband is the only place on earth where I’m happy.
However, the wrung-out ache in my gut knows this is the absolute right decision.
19
SINÉAD
By the time the car’s headlights shine on the road sign for Donegall, I’m bone tired. My eyelids have struggled to stay open for the past ten miles and my belly grumbles from hunger.
I slam my boot on the gas and ignore the GPS, knowing these familiar roads better than it does now.
It won’t be long until I’m home.
But it's not my home anymore.
Home is a feeling, not a place—André.
The closer I get to The Rusty Shamrock, the harder my heart pounds. When I see the whitewashed exterior and abandoned picnic benches at the front of the remote bar, looking exactly like it did the night I was kidnapped, that rush of fear turns to caution.
Everything is still the same. From the dancing lights in the windows to the local man stumbling out of the front door and fixing his coat collar in preparation to brave the lashing rain.
I reverse the car into a parking space across the road from The Rusty Shamrock and switch off the engine. Sitting in the dark, I watch the entrance for a while, unsure what I’d expected to find when I arrived. But it certainly wasn’t normality.
Before I go inside to check on Mammy, I grab my phone and turn it back on. When the screen glows to life, a single unread message is waiting for me.
Husband: You shouldn’t have run from me, Wifey.
That's it. Seven words. One sentence. Nothing more.
My pulse thrums. I drag a hand down my face and blow out steadily, trying to assemble what courage I have into a savage, queenly monster. Instead, a crippling headache throbs behind my eyes and I question whether my legs would work if I tried to get out of the car.
Checking for my gun, I take it out of the backpack and stare at it in my hand. Heavy cold steel sits there, housing lethal bullets. I suck in an exhausted breath and tuck the weapon into the waistband of my jeans, so it's accessible if I need it.
This is it. There’s no turning back.
